02 – Wyllow

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“That’s a load of crap,” Chuck said. “You have to be nuts to think we’d buy that.”

Livia shook her head. “It really happened. I swear to you.”

“You fell in the canal and banged your head. You can’t trust what you remember.”

Livia shrugged. “That could also be true.”

A sharp whistle from the caretaker silenced them both, and all heads turned to face him.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s keep it moving. Half these decorations are ruined, but the other half can still be salvaged. Find the usable ones and we’ll keep them for next year.”

Everyone split up to gather what remained. Some decorations were plastic, easily wiped clean and packed into boxes stacked along the side of the hall. Others were paper and were dumped into a pile to be thrown away.

While sorting what to keep and what to toss, one of the girls tugged on Livia’s sleeve. Livia almost missed her. The girl was a good head shorter.

“Oh. Wyllow?”

“I believe you,” Wyllow said. “A lot of us have been talking about the weird stuff that’s been happening around town this week.”

“Like what?” Livia asked.

“I saw a light too. But it wasn’t a candle or a floating one. It was a spotlight.”

“What’s so strange about a spotlight?”

“It didn’t come from anywhere, and it shone on—”

The caretaker’s head rose from the other side of the trash pile. “Are you telling a story now, Miss Wyllow?”

Wyllow nodded. “I guess so.”

“Well, speak up so we can all hear. We might as well have some entertainment while we work.”

Chuck scoffed. “Oh great. Another one.”

Wyllow looked around. Everyone was watching her now.

Wyllow’s Story

My mummy and daddy took me to the circus last Friday, but the whole night was ruined when the clown died.

It was near the end of the show. After the flock of budgies bowed and flew off with their trainer, a clown climbed onto a giant hamster wheel and started running. We never got to see what the trick was. His foot got trapped in the rungs and threw him off.

We laughed, thinking it was part of the act. Then the floodlights came on and the ringmaster told us to leave in a calm and orderly manner.

The clown was staring right at me when he died. Just like Grandma did.

We went for ice cream afterward. That was Dad’s way of keeping us calm. He even let my brother and me stay up late at the arcade. I think I could have forgotten about the clown if the ambulance had not stopped there.

The drivers did not get out. They just sat in the front, staring at us through the windshield. Then the back doors opened and the clown stepped out to wave at us.

My brother laughed and told Daddy it was part of the show.

“The clown’s still alive!”

The clown pulled out balloons that inflated without him blowing into them. Each one was already shaped like an animal or toy. My brother and I joined the line. All the other kids wanted balloons too.

“And I have a very special one for you,” he told me.

It was a balloon clown. It looked just like him.

I said, “Thanks, mister,” and ran back inside.

The paint on his lips was the same color as blood, and his eyes were glazed over.

Once we were home, Daddy sent us to bed. I do not know how long I slept. My next memory is being woken by a tapping at the window. When I opened the curtains, I expected to see a bird or a bug.

What I saw was the clown.

He giggled through red-smeared teeth and pressed a finger to his equally smeared lips to shush me. Then he pushed away from the house like he was a balloon himself.

He floated down to the lawn. The second he touched the ground, a spotlight appeared around him.

Then he snapped his fingers.

Fire burst from his hands. He threw it into the air. Then another. Then another. He juggled the flames faster and faster until he caught them all in one hand and hurled them at the house.

They did not make a sound when they exploded against the windows.

I did.

I screamed for Mummy and Daddy. Even my brother came to check on me.

I could not find the words, so I pointed outside while Mummy dabbed my eyes with a tissue. When I could see again, the clown was waving at us.

“What the hell is that freak doing here?” Daddy said, and went for his phone.

A few minutes later, the police knocked at our door. Daddy led them outside to where the clown was still performing.

He picked himself up by his own head and climbed a ladder he pulled from his pocket. He hung a picture of himself in midair, then let it fall so his real head replaced the portrait.

The officers circled him and shouted for him to come with them. He looked thrilled to have a bigger audience.

One officer told him to come quietly to the station. The clown responded by throwing a pie in his face. Another officer drew his gun and warned the clown he would open fire.

My dad joined them with his hunting rifle and told the clown to get off our property. The police did not look happy about that.

The clown had nowhere to go.

He looked at us and bowed. This time, he did not rise again.

The spotlight faded. He tipped forward and collapsed, almost like he was deflating. The officers crept closer. One of them poked him with a nightstick.

The clown did not move.

That officer spoke into his radio while another talked to Daddy. A few minutes later, the same ambulance from earlier arrived. The men inside were just as confused as the police. They did not remember falling asleep at the arcade.

The police helped them load the clown into the ambulance and followed it back to the hospital, probably to make sure they reached it this time.

When they were gone, Daddy sat us down at the dining table and held his gun tightly.

“It’s just bizarre,” he said. “That clown was pronounced dead back at the circus, and the cops just told me he was stone cold and stiff, like he’d been dead for hours.”